


Migraines and Hangovers

by gilbeilschmidt



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, The italics is mostly memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 05:27:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18958789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gilbeilschmidt/pseuds/gilbeilschmidt
Summary: Paul doesn't know what to do without John, so he does nothing.





	Migraines and Hangovers

“Get _the fuck away from me!”_ John’s words echoed around in Paul’s head, entering every single fucking thought he had and pounding against his skull painfully. _Another_ migraine. The fourth migraine this week. He stood up and made his way to the kitchen, passing the fridge on the way (his stomach grumbled noisily, but he ignored it, figuring that eating would make him feel worse about himself). He shook the bottle of painkillers that he found on his table (from Ringo, who noticed his migraines) and let two fall out onto his hand. He took them with water and then hurried back to his bedroom.

 

The curtains were drawn shut, a small ray of light coming in through a little gap at the side and the room smelled of beer and cigarette smoke. Paul ignored the smell and threw himself down onto his bed roughly, pulling the covers over himself.

 

_“Johnny! What- why?” Paul replied, shock evident on his face. What had he done wrong? John shook his head and clenched his eyes shut, “Just get out.” He said venomously._

 

Paul shook his head. “Stupid,” He pulls the blanket further up, “Fucking stupid.” He could feel tears coming to his eyes, but he forced them away (much like he did with most things in his life, pushed them away) and pulled the blanket over his eyes.

 

Suddenly, a knock came at his door. “Who is it?” He yelled back, not wanting to get out of bed. The pounding in his head worsened, becoming a loud  _bang, bang, bang_ noise. He groaned in pain. 

_“Don't fucking come near me, queer!”_

 

Paul didn't want to cry. He didn't. He tried not to. 

 

“It’s Ringo and George!”

 

Of course it is. It’s always them; never John. He wished that John cared... he wished that this had never happened. 

 

“The,” His voice cracked when he thought of John, “The door is open.” He heard the door open, then shuffling, then footsteps, then the door closing, and then his bedroom door opening.

 

Paul peered over the top of his blanket, blushing heavily when he saw George and Ringo staring at him. “Macca, you need to get up.” Ringo said softly, his voice dripping with pity and worry, laced with sadness for his friend, "Please, Paulie. Please..."

 

“We’re all worried about you. We all miss you.” George spoke this time, sounding equally as worried and pitying. Paul’s chest tightened painfully, a pang of guilt washing over him as he processed the words. He'd made them worried, he'd _hurt them._

 

“ _Worthless fuckin’ queer!”_ John, again.

 

He let out a throaty sob, “I’m sorry,” He could feel the tears that he'd been trying to hold in escape him, “I’m so, so sorry…”

 

Ringo sat down and pulled Paul against him, hugging him close, protectively, “It’s okay, Macca. Don't cry; don't apologise…”

 

George pulled out his phone. “I need to call someone. I’ll be back in a minute,” He left the room hastily, muttering a quick 'sorry' as he did so. 

 

Paul instantly silenced his sobs and sniffing and crying so that he could hear more clearly. “Who's he calling?”

 

“Just listen.” Ringo replied. 

 

“But- Johnny- listen to me! Paul’s a mess- listen you git! No- stop that! He needs you. He does. He _needs_ you, Johnny. John- will you just _listen to me!_ He's not eating, he's barely talking! All he does is cry and sleep and drink. It’s not healthy. If you don't sort out the mess you've made I’m going to- John! No, he's not. Blimey! You better sort this out, arsehole. John- fuck!”

 

Paul felt guilty again. He felt worthless again. He felt _numb_ again.

 

* * *

 

 

Paul, once again, took a swig from his beer bottle. He turned in his bed to face away from his bedroom door, wrapped up in a single blanket. It was fucking _cold._

 

_“It’s freezing out ‘ere, mate.” Paul said, rubbing his arms to emphasise his point, laughing as John rolled his eyes. “It’s not that cold out ‘ere, Macca. You're just weak,” Paul gasps in mock insult, placing a hand on his chest. John took his hand and laughed, “You shou’da bought your coat with ya.” He took off his own coat and put it around Paul. “There.” And Paul is left with John’s coat and a blush dusting his cheeks._

 

Paul tried not to think about those times. The times in which he started falling in love with John.

 

_“Johnny, mate, you need to calm down!” Paul laughed as John began spinning in circles on the spot, “Blimey!” John also laughs, continuing to spin. “Am I a pretty bird, Paulie?” The younger blushes and nods._

 

Since Ringo and George’s last visit, he hasn't seen anyone. That was almost two days ago. John never showed up to “fix him” and Paul hasn't left his bed for any reason other than to take a leak or get another beer. Sometimes to get more painkillers. Hangovers and migraines.

 

_Paul’s head pounded as he sat up. “Paulie, you're finally awake.” He hears John say from next to him. He turned and jumped as he realised how close John was to him. “Jesus, Johnny! You scared me, twit!” He hissed in pain as his head started pounding again. Luckily, John passed him a glass of water and a painkiller. “Thanks, luv.”_

 

Paul downs the rest of the beer in the bottle. He knew he should shave, he knew he should shower, he knew he should _get up_. But, what's the point?

 

A knock broke the silence. _Who was at the door at this ungodly hour- oh, it was three in the afternoon. Huh._

 

“Door’s open, unless you're not here to kill me then it’s shut!”

 

The door opened slowly. Paul heard his own bedroom door open. And then shuffling. And whispering. Again. 

 

“Hey, Macca.” He heard George say. 

 

“Talk to him,” George then whispered from behind him. He was facing away from the door again, he couldn't bear to look at them anymore. “This is your fault. Talk.”

 

Paul’s heart dropped when someone who wasn't George or Ringo cleared their throat and spoke, “Hi, Paul.”

 

 _John_. It was _John_.

 

The younger tried to say something but no words would come out, only a broken whimper. He pulled the covers over his head and muttered a soft, “Go away,” to him. “Leave me alone.” 

 

“I’m sorry, Macca. I’m _so_ sorry.” John whispered softly. Paul hadn't noticed that John had moved to sit on the bed, leaning on him, until he felt soft breathing on his neck, “I love you so, so much. You're my other half, my _everything_. You're my fucking light and I’m so sorry that I did this to you. I’m _so fucking sorry,”_ Paul moved to look at him, “I’m in love with you. I can't stand to see you doing this to yourself. I didn't mean anything I said to you before.”

 

Paul sobbed quietly and hugged John, almost knocking them both off the bed in the progress - “I love you too… I love you so much…”

 

They shared a much-needed kiss, and all was well.


End file.
